Another Kind of Hurricane Page 5

Zavion walked through the door that separated the living room from the kitchen. Ms. Cyn was in blue jeans and a t-shirt, her long gray dreadlocks tied back in a scarf, standing in front of a big cutting board.

  “Do you need some help?” Zavion asked.

  She whipped around so fast her hair slapped her in the face.

  “Lordy, child!” she said. “You scared the living pee out of me!”

  One of her dreadlocks had stuck to a piece of dough that was on her face, just hanging there, like it was glued on.

  The skin around her eyes folded into wrinkle marks and she laughed.

  “Did you have a good nap? No one had the heart to wake you.”

  No, thought Zavion. He didn’t think he’d ever sleep well again.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “A little after two. You wanna take over making this bread?” Ms. Cyn asked. “Here’s a secret.” She leaned in toward Zavion. “I despise cooking.” She said the word despise like it was two words. Deeee Spies. “And if I’m going to let you be witness to the whole truth, Zavion, honey, I despise the very kitchen itself. There, I said it. Amen.”

  Zavion stood staring at the bread dough.

  “It doesn’t like me, but it won’t bite you,” she said. “Go on.”

  He wrapped his hands on either side of the dough. It was warm. He squeezed so it rose up.

  “Push on it,” said Ms. Cyn.

  It was stiff. Zavion got up onto his knees on the stool in front of him so he could put his whole body into it.

  “That’s right,” said Ms. Cyn. She stood behind him and put her hands on his hands. “Now turn it, fold it, and push again. It’s called kneading,” she said. “And look at that. You’re hired.”

  Push the dough, then turn it, fold it, and then push again.

  He grabbed the rhythm like it was a life preserver.

  “How many times do I knead it?” said Zavion.

  “You’ll feel it get more elastic,” said Ms. Cyn.

  “How many times?” he asked again.

  “Maybe forty or fifty times.”

  “Forty-five?”

  “Yes, child. Forty-five.” Ms. Cyn took Zavion’s shoulder and gently turned him toward her. “Do you know what you’re doing right there?” she said. Her eyes were shiny. Zavion shook his head. “You’re making gluten.”

  “What’s gluten?”

  “It’s a protein that keeps the bread from falling apart.” She looked like she was about to cry. “It also helps create little air pockets that let the dough rise on up.”

  Zavion liked the sound of that.

  Ms. Cyn shook her head and clapped her hands. “How’s that gash on your leg healing?” she said. “May I?” She knelt down and pulled up his pant leg. “Nicely. Good.”

  The kitchen door opened.

  Osprey walked in wearing high-heeled sandals, a scarf, and large, round sunglasses. She was holding on to a leash attached to a watering can.

  “Good morning to you! Good morning to you!” she sang. “Good morning, dear—” She paused and pulled her sunglasses up onto her head. “Good morning, dear new boy who I forget the name of! Good morning to you!”

  “Uh—it’s not morning,” Zavion said.

  “But that’s how the song goes.” Osprey pulled her sunglasses to the edge of her nose and stared at Zavion. “What’s your name again?”

  “Zavion.”

  “Well, Zavion, this is Flower.” She pointed to the watering can. “You have a pet?” said Osprey. She did a somersault on the kitchen floor. “A dog?”

  “No,” said Zavion.

  “I had a dog,” said Osprey. She spun in circles around Zavion’s stool. “I’m still teaching Flower how to do tricks, but my dog, Crow, he knew how to do all of them. He could roll over. He could sit with a piece of food on his nose and then flip it up in the air and eat it. He could play dead.” Osprey was making Zavion dizzy. “Now he’s dead all the time.” She stopped spinning and flopped on the floor.

  Ms. Cyn grabbed up Osprey and hugged her tight. “You hungry, little glamour girl?” She kissed each of the lenses on Osprey’s sunglasses. Osprey giggled.

  The kitchen door opened again.

  “Dinner would be ready sooner if your Grand-Auntie Cyn had done her job,” said Enzo, leaning into the kitchen.

  “Hello to you too,” said Ms. Cyn.

  “You’d think the floor was made of snakes the way you’re afraid to step foot in this kitchen here,” said Enzo.

  Zavion flinched. Water moccasins. In his kitchen.

  “Now, you hush—” said Ms. Cyn.

  “Come on outside and play with me, little angel girl,” said Enzo.

  Osprey wiggled her way out of Ms. Cyn’s arms. “I gotta go take Flower out to pee and then we can play,” she said as she skipped out of the kitchen, dragging the watering can behind her.

  —

  Push the dough, then turn it, fold it, and then push again.

  Twenty-nine.

  Thirty.

  Thirty-one—

  —

  And then rain.

  Pouring down hard.

  Zavion jumped off his stool.

  All of a sudden, when his heart beat, it hurt.

  The pain was unbearable.

  —

  Ms. Cyn rushed to his side.

  She made a soft, clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth.

  “It was just the sprayer on the kitchen sink,” she whispered.

  “Foolish of me.”

  This time she was crying.

  —

  Papa came in as Zavion began to knead again.

  “This is a regular diner, all these people coming and going,” said Ms. Cyn. “Hello, Ben.”

  “Any chance for some coffee?” Papa asked in his gravelly voice.

  Ms. Cyn held up a mug. “Yah, Ben. Right here.” She poured coffee from the metal carafe and handed it to him.

  “Bless you,” he said. “Move over, Zavion.” Papa sat on the stool as Zavion pushed the cutting board and bread dough out of the way and hopped up onto the counter.

  “We have to figure out where we’re going,” said Papa.

  Zavion sat the bread dough in his lap and squeezed it again. It rose up between his fingers like a mountain. He thought of Grandmother Mountain. That’s where they needed to be.

  “We should go to a mountain.”

  Papa reached up to tousle Zavion’s hair.

  “Hey, are you getting paint in my hair?” Zavion asked, ducking out of the way. Papa had a slash of green paint across his hand. Leave it to Papa to somehow find a canvas when everything else was lost. “So what about a mountain, Papa?” said Zavion. He wiggled his legs. He was going to have flour all over the seat of his pants.

  “What about it?”

  “Can we go there?” Zavion asked.

  “What do you mean, there? Just find some mountain? And what—live in a cave?”

  “Can we go to Grandmother Mountain? Like Mama promised?”

  Zavion saw Papa flinch. It was a tiny movement, a small ripple under his eyes. “I’m thinking we’ll go move near Gabe.”

  “I don’t know Gabe,” Zavion said, his heart sinking. He had only ever met his uncle once.

  “Well, it’s high time you did know him, then, don’t you think?” Papa said.

  “You almost done with the breads, honey?” Ms. Cyn winked at Zavion.

  “Almost,” he said.

  “You’re making bread?” said Papa, raising his head.

  “He’s good at it,” said Ms. Cyn.

  “He cooks at home too—or, uh—cooked.” Papa paused. “I’ll bet he’s good at it. Let me get out of here so you can finish.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “Zavion’s a responsible boy,” said Ms. Cyn. She put a hand on Zavion’s shoulder as she said boy, like she was reminding Papa of something.

  “He’s a good boy.” Papa walked to the door. Then he turned back. “We’ll figure this out, Zav.”


  Zavion brushed flour off his pants and got back down onto the stool. He already had it figured out. They were going to Grandmother Mountain. That was the plan.

  He kneaded the dough fourteen more times. There was that funny feeling again—like some creature crawling under his shirt. He pulled his hands out of the dough and scratched the base of his neck. “I think I’m done,” he said.

  Ms. Cyn stretched a corner of the dough into a thin rectangle. “Perfect,” she said. “See that? The thin sheet? See how it doesn’t break? That means it’s ready to rise. You’re a natural. Now break the dough into two sections and shape them into rounds,” said Ms. Cyn, handing Zavion a wooden paddle with a long handle. “Put them on this, okay? Then all you do is wait and let them rise.”

  Let them rise.

  Zavion liked the sound of that.

  chapter 16

  HENRY

  Henry sat at the base of the big pine tree behind his house. School was only just out, he figured, and he didn’t want to go inside until Mom was back fom her errand.

  He’d never cut before. Wayne had, and he’d tried to get Henry to do it with him, but Henry had been too scared. He’d felt a funny feeling in his belly like he did on Valentine’s Day, the one holiday his dad sent him anything, a crazy-ton of candy that he always ate before breakfast. Just thinking about cutting made him feel that way, so he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to actually do it.

  One time Wayne wanted him to cut school so they could climb Mount Mansfield and spend the whole day up there. Henry had been tempted to say yes, but Brae had sat down between them, looked up at Henry, and yowled. Brae kept Henry on the straight and narrow. But Wayne had begged him so hard and for so long that Henry finally suggested they leave really early one weekend morning and spend the day on the mountain. Wayne said that was boring, but what if they slept up there one night? And even though Henry had felt a little of that candy-in-the-belly feeling, he swallowed it down and said he’d ask Mom. Wayne said no, that he wanted to sneak out of the house one night and do it, and the sickly sweet feeling got bigger, and so Henry said no, but Wayne grabbed the idea between his teeth like Brae with a bone and he wouldn’t let go.

  Brae had been taking a nap at the time or he wouldn’t have ever let Henry agree to the plan.

  Wayne had sealed the deal. “It’s your turn with the marble,” he said. “You’ve got the luck. Nothing’s gonna happen. We won’t get caught.”

  Henry had felt in his pocket, felt the cool, smooth curve of the marble, and that was when he’d said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Henry stared up at Mansfield from under the pine tree. He would never, ever get out from under the accusing fingers and glares pointed right at him. Every single tree and rock blamed him, and every stream shouted you did this, you did this, you did this as they flowed down the mountain. He could see Mansfield from every window in his house.

  Mom pulled into the driveway. Henry waited until she’d gone inside, and then he walked around the house to the front door and let himself in.

  “How was school?” Mom called from the kitchen.

  “Fine.”

  Mom came into the mudroom. “Was it really? You didn’t have to go, you know—I was worried—but then I thought it might feel better to be there—”

  “I said it was fine,” said Henry sharply.

  Mom put her hand on Henry’s cheek. “Okay, okay,” she said quietly. And then she changed the subject. “I brought the clothes to the police station,” she said brightly.

  Henry pulled himself away from Mom. “What clothes?”

  “Don’t worry,” Mom said. “I didn’t take Wayne’s.”

  “Which ones did you take?” Henry ran for the stairs.

  “The ones on the floor,” Mom called after him.

  Henry flew into his room. The Wayne he had built was still lying on his floor. But the rest of the clothes were gone. Including his blue jeans.

  With the marble in the pocket.

  Henry yanked open his dresser drawer. Maybe Mom had put the jeans back. He threw sweatpants and shorts and corduroys on the floor. No blue jeans.

  “What are you looking for?” Mom had followed Henry up the stairs.

  “My blue jeans! Where are my blue jeans?”

  “I gave them away.”

  “But I wear them, Mom!”

  “They were too big. I don’t know why your father bought them for you. He is a grown man and he keeps thinking that he’s going to grow taller than five foot eight. He’s not. And you’re not. You were never going to grow into them.”

  “They were mine, Mom!” Henry got close to her face. “I wore them! I liked them! You had no right to give them away!”

  “I’ll buy you another pair.”

  “I don’t want another pair!” Henry’s belly felt worse than on Valentine’s Day morning. “Take me to the police station now! I need to get those blue jeans back!”

  “Henry, calm down—” Mom put her hands on Henry’s shoulders. He ducked down out of her grip and walked away. “We can’t go get them. They’re on the highway by now, honey, heading to New Orleans—”

  The marble.

  It was gone.

  Henry had wanted to throw it into the woods, had wanted to get rid of it, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He had kept it. And now it was in his jeans pocket, in a garbage bag, in a truck, speeding away down the highway.

  marble journey part I

  MARGARITA MONTERO

  Margarita turned the radio down so she could hear better.

  “Marco did what?” she asked into the phone. She couldn’t have heard Christo right. “He scored a goal?” She couldn’t believe it. How many hours had she and Christo spent in the backyard with Marco, showing him how to dribble, showing him the sweet spot on the side of his sneaker, taking turns standing in the goal as Marco shot soccer ball after soccer ball to the outside of the metal posts?

  In this case it was like mother, like son. When Margarita had been five—no, maybe it was even earlier, like age four or even three—her father had taken her to the park almost every day to practice goal kicks. Margarita remembered him leaning against the white post, his hair back in a ponytail, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head, disappointed as she missed every goal.

  At home, in Spain, everyone played soccer. Margarita’s father played, her older brother, even her two younger stepbrothers played. It was expected that Margarita would too. But she didn’t want to. Her feet had no interest—or her feet had no skill—in kicking the ball, and her fingers always itched to fit themselves around the markers she had under her bed in her room. The ones her abuela had given her. She spent hours pulling the markers out of their plastic sleeve and rearranging their order.

  Rainbow order—rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, púrpura.

  Complementary order—rojo y verde, anaranjado y azul, amarillo y púrpura.

  Favorite color order—púrpura, verde, anaranjado, azul, amarillo, rojo.

  —

  Margarita pulled her hand away from her ear to adjust the rearview mirror. She could barely see with all the garbage bags piled up in the back of the truck. She grinned. It felt good to be doing something useful. Taking these clothes to the kids down in New Orleans. Almost a year in Vermont now, and she was still trying to find a teaching job. She put the phone back to her ear. She had missed some of what Christo had said.

  “Yes, I promise. I’ll let you know when I get there. I love you and Marco too,” she said. “Oh, and tell Marco I challenge him to kick a goal past me when I get home.” She clicked off her phone.

  Margarita stretched her neck from one side to the other and saw a small green car pass her on the left. Two little kids were in the backseat, their heads close together, hunched over something, maybe playing a game. She checked the truck clock. 6:14 p.m. She decided she’d drive as far as she could. Until she began to experience that almost-asleep feeling. The truck driver at the Williston Police Department had left her with that one
piece of advice.

  “Stop driving as soon as you feel your eyelids get heavy. Even if it’s for a half second. Those half seconds can turn into seconds, and then those seconds can turn into sleep really fast,” he had said.

  Margarita turned the radio back up. She tapped her thumb on the edge of the steering wheel. Right now she felt wide awake. And she felt other things too. Happy to be on the way to New Orleans. Proud of Marco. Lonely for her papa. Itchy to do something with her fingers.

  And then out of the blue, she said, “Jacks!” and took her hands off the steering wheel for half a second—no worry of falling asleep—and snapped her fingers.

  All of a sudden she had a vision of her abuelo playing jacks with her great-uncles in front of his house—she hadn’t thought of that since she was a little girl—and she wished her papa were alive. Why hadn’t they ever played? It was a family game that he’d liked, but she could have used her hands instead of her feet. It wasn’t something Papa had thought was silly, like art.

  Margarita would play jacks with Marco, then. In honor of Papa. She’d buy a bag of jacks and a few rubber balls, maybe rainbow-colored balls—rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde, azul, púrpura—and teach Marco how to play when she got home.

  chapter 17

  ZAVION

  “I think I might have kneaded the bread too much,” said Zavion.

  Night was hard.

  He didn’t sleep much, and when he did, he had the same nightmare.

  And that made the next morning hard too.

  “I don’t know what went wrong. I kneaded forty-five times—” He winced as he pulled on the bread. “It’s too tough. I’m sorry—”

  “No apologies, Zavion, honey,” said Ms. Cyn. “It’s bread. It’s flexible.” She chuckled. “It stretches just fine.” She pulled on a corner of the dough and let go. It snapped back.

  “But it’s better to knead less than knead more. I have to remember that—”

  “It’s all a process, Zavion. You’re a good learner.”

  Zavion did have to admit that even though he could do better, he was getting the hang of this bread-making thing. It was only his second day on the job and he had made the bread by himself. It was his job now. He was putting the two loaves on the paddle when the kitchen door opened and three men—the clowns—tumbled in.